Lime Scale
by J-Beatrice.Thomas
Summary: George's constant battle against messy washer-upers. Started out as a one shot, but is turning into a fic about everything that's wrong with the house. Contains some references to jokes and minor plot turns in series 2, but no major spoilers.
1. Chapter 1 Lime Scale

Lime scale – George's constant battle against messy washer-upers

George sighed and scratched his head. '_Is it really necessary to leave the dishes on the draining board to dry? What is so hard about using a tea towel?'_

He picked up and wetted a cloth under the tap, and made to scrub away the white scale that had been collecting on the draining board, but then shook his head and dropped the cloth back into the washing up bowl. '_This is Mitchell's doing,_' he thought'_he messed the place up, he can clean it._' George made himself some tea and sat down, muttering about the folly of vampires.

The werewolf remained in his seat for some time, knitting and un-knitting his brow.

"Ah Mitchell," he said as the vampire walked in "so glad you could join us."

"What's wrong?" Mitchell asked, opening the fridge and drinking some juice straight from the bottle.

"Wrong? _Wrong_? There's nothing wrong with me! What gave you that idea?"

" What you mean _apart_ from your sarcastic tone and saying 'us' even though you and I are the only one's here? You're really something."

"Oh no, I'm just fine and dandy. Everything's just tickety-boo!"

"Okay, you're scaring me now; what have I done this time?"

George stood up abruptly, marched to the sink and pointed at the scale. He looked both righteously triumphant and accusing. Mitchell didn't get it.

"Erm… yeah sorry. Could you imagine there's an invisible person in the room who doesn't get what you're angry about, and explain it to them?"

"Well Mi… _invisible person_, it seems that there is a steadily increasing amount of lime scale on this draining board." George turned to Mitchell "Since you seem incapable of drying the plates after you've washed them instead of leaving all higgledy-piggledy, you can clean the scale off."

There was a pause.

"George, I never do the washing up… I'm not much of a marigold person."

"You never… oh of _course_, Mitchell is too good to wear marigolds and wash some dishes. Well, this has just unearthed another issue…"

At this point, Annie came in, calling out her hellos.

"… which we will deal with later." George finished. Mitchell shrugged and went upstairs, saying 'hi' to Annie as he passed.

"Hi George!" Annie said, bouncing in to the kitchen and putting the kettle on for some more tea.

"Yes, yes, _hello Annie_." George replied, making the mental calculation that, if it wasn't Mitchell who'd left the dishes out to dry, it must have been the ghost. "Annie, did you do the washing up?"

"Oh for god's sake, George, could you get of my case about that?"

"About what?"

"About the fact that I haven't done my full quota of washing up this week. You know I'm working my socks off down at Hugh's pub."

"Yes well – apart from the fact that it is_ physically impossible_ to work your socks off at a pub that is always empty – your failure to stick to our chores rota is not what I am 'on your case' about. My annoyance for today is that, when you _do_ manage to do your bit, you leave the plates out to dry on the draining board, so that it collects lime scale!" George squeaked, gesturing and waving his hand wildly around the offensive evidence.

"But George," Annie snorted "I just said that wasn't me; I've been working in the pub remember."

"Being chatted up by the customers – oh sorry – _customer _more like."

"George!" Annie stormed out, calling "It must have been Mitchell."

"But it wasn't!" George shouted back.

"Well then, that just leaves Nina, doesn't it?"

'_Yes, of course, Nina._' Thought George '_Nina. Who else?_'

"Speak of the devil!" He muttered as his girlfriend came through the door.

"Hi." Nina grumbled to nobody in particular.

"Nina," George said, waylaying her "I suppose it was you who…" he trailed off on seeing her stormy expression.

"What?"

"… nothing. I was just going to clean the lime scale off the draining board. I must stop leaving the dishes out to dry. We have a tea towel for a reason!" George rambled sheepishly. Nina rolled her eyes and stomped upstairs.

Mitchell came down, smirking.

"You are such a coward." He muttered in his friend's ear.

"Oh, just… go and buy some lime scale remover will you?"

'_Really! The things I put up with. This house is just a constant battle ground against messy washer-upers._'


	2. Chapter 2 Cracks

Cracks – The part of the floor at which no one ever wants to look.

Both George and Mitchell had tried to be as tactful as they could about the cracks in the tile from the moment they'd moved in; even before they'd met the creator of the cracks herself, they'd heard about the accident and treated the conspicuous scars across the floor with considerable wariness. It was just a part of the floor at which nobody ever wanted to look. Then, after they met Annie, they found a whole new reason to appear is if they never noticed the site of the accident: Annie was very sensitive about her death ('who wouldn't be?' George had commented) and neither man wanted to upset the delicate balance in which their tentative new friendship lay.

As time went on, all three inhabitants of the little pink house developed their own way of dealing with the cracked hall tile: Annie simply avoided the place – though she was hardly aware she was doing it – whilst George would surreptitiously (and somewhat superstitiously) jump over it whenever he had to climb the stairs. Mitchell's method was slightly more daring than his more sensitive counterpart's. One particularly horrible morning in Annie's afterlife had led to whole story coming out. Not the kind of word-of-mouth, gossipy story that Mitchell and George had heard, but Annie's own version of her death – or at least what she thought had happened at the time. There had been tears, there had been rounds of tea even more obsessively made than usual and there had been a Mitchell who was very out of his depth with all the female, I-died-falling-down-the-stairs anguish. Then, as he was about to climb the stairs, a flash of anger had hit the vampire (What a waste that death had been! Where was the damn fiancé when it happened? What stupid fool used hard tiles at the bottom of their stairs?) and he'd made his foot land straight on the guilty tile as he bolted upwards. Since then, Mitchell had grown accustomed to measuring his steps so that he'd always tread on the cracked tile, as if defiance of death itself. George privately disapproved of Mitchell's audacity, fearing that Annie might take the gesture as being disrespectful towards the place in which she had died, but the ghost had never noticed, or if she had, she didn't mind. In truth, Annie had never taken much interest in where either man stepped, as long as his shoes didn't make a muddy mark.


End file.
